


Within a Dream

by rocket_diving



Series: Neverending Game [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Dark, Felix's Backstory, Little!Felix, M/M, Neverland (Once Upon a Time), Neverland Husbands, One-Sided Crushing on Pan, Panlix - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 04:53:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocket_diving/pseuds/rocket_diving
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Felix was seven, the first time he met Peter Pan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Within a Dream

**Author's Note:**

> _A dream is a wish your heart makes,_   
>  _When you're fast asleep..._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> \- **Cinderella** , 1950 Disney Animated Classic

Felix had seen more than one boy run when it was time to hide, and the consequences of such a mistake were brutal, to say the least.

He'd seen boys younger and older snatched off the street at night by foul men - leering, red-faced drunkards and calculating, dead-eyed factory foremen - because they hadn't hidden themselves from sight quickly enough. He’d also seen boys snatched up when cops were doing their rounds or been called in after one of them got busted trying to swipe food for dinner. When things got hairy enough, hiding and laying low became imperative.

But right now, there was no choice other than to run. Panting, Felix stumbled through the broken ferns and thick jungle leaves that reached over his head in some places, desperate not to lose sight of the flapping tail of the older boy’s cloak. 

Felix was used to tall buildings and dirty streets accompanied by a constant din – crying babies, caterwauling alley cats, angry neighbors, fast talking newsies, bar fights spilling onto the sidewalk, the spitting of a rusty boiler… Even though the scenery was entirely foreign, he hadn't asked any questions when he’d been shook awake and told to run if he valued his mangy hide. There were times for talk and there were times for action, and he’d seen the urgency mingled with excitement inside of that older boy’s eyes. 

He knew that look meant Trouble.

“Keep up, Felix, keep up!” the boy called back to him, glancing briefly over a shoulder. The boy was grinning, his voice a barely contained laugh. 

Felix just gasped and continued his frantic pace, even as he saw the gap between them widening further and further. Seven years old and thin from too many missed meals, he didn't really have a chance of keeping up with the other boy. Just as they were crossing into a small clearing, Felix’s toe caught in the hook of a tree root and he tumbled to the ground, a slight sound escaping him as the air was forced from his lungs.

The other boy never noticed and never slowed down as he dashed into the thicket again, leaving Felix behind.

Felix dug his fingers into the damp earth and struggled to find his breath; above him, birds warbled warnings of danger to one another. He needed to keep moving – he inched across the ground until he felt the uneven bark of a tree pressing rough against his back, and using this for leverage Felix was slowly able to stand back up.

The trees were taller than any he'd ever seen and stretched immeasurably in every direction. It was impossible to determine which way the other boy had gone. He was alone and miles away from the city (and probably farther then that), and was beginning to feel overwhelmed on top of completely confused. 

And it was at that moment that the two Natives burst through the thicket, weapons raised and painted faces twisted into snarls.

It was rare, but sometimes folks came in to the city from out West, and told stories of blood thirsty Apache and Comanche natives that continued fighting for their land. Felix stared at the Native, every gruesome tale and embellishment suddenly coming to life before him. His pale eyes were wide beneath the dirty, uneven blond curls of his hair as he desperately looked for an escape route.

But the Natives did not slow their advance. The one on the right charged forward, his decorated spear flashing as he swiped at Felix, aiming for his chest. Felix fell backwards, scrambling away even as the second Native followed the first’s lead and stabbed downward to harpoon him through the gut. He narrowly managed to avoid that attack by rolling away. As he pushed up from the ground and turned to look at his assailants, he realized he was as good as dead as the first stood over him, spear raised high to be brought down through his spine.

There was a sickening _crack_ and time seemed to slow; the Native was poised with spear above him, ready to strike, and was then pitching over sideways to the ground. Felix’s stared at the back of the Native’s smashed skull, at the rapidly spreading pool of blood beneath him, and then in shock he turned his sight upward once more.

It was the older boy. He stood with his back to Felix now, clutching a ball-headed club in both hands, the end glistening wet. “I love this Game,” he sighed with content, as lightly as one might speak of checkers or pick-up-sticks.

The second Native charged forward with a war-cry and the older boy rushed to meet him head-on, fearless. Felix watched as they exchanged blows, the club blocking and turning aside the jabs and slashes of the spear with ease. The older boy swiped the Native’s legs out from beneath him, and the Native hit the ground. 

Felix watched with mute, grotesque fascination as the older boy lifted his club and brought it down against the Native’s chest, without a hint of hesitation. He struck in this way three times – there was a spray of blood the third time which caused the older boy to step back. Surveying his handiwork and finding it satisfactory, the boy turned his head and started toward Felix once more.

Blood flecks trailed across one of the older boy’s smooth cheeks, a stark crimson against his pale skin; he absently wiped at it with the back of a hand and left behind thin, colored streaks like his own macabre war-paint. He lifted the club and set it over a shoulder, the other hand resting against the jut of his hip as he stopped right in front of Felix.

“Alright then, Felix?” he asked as he tilted his head back, staring down his nose at Felix, unsmiling. His brows twitched together, the right one arching as he awaited a response. It seemed everything that would happen next was dependent upon Felix’s answer.

Felix stared up from the ground at the older boy, at the image he cut against the backdrop of the dense Forest. The other postured before him with a completely comfortable, self-assured ease, radiating a cocky conviction that hadn't been beaten out of him by anything Life had thrown his way. He’d witnessed this boy kill two grown **men** – the boy hadn't _hidden_ , he hadn't _run_ , and he hadn't hesitated. 

Vulgar faces of men, rough hands and quick blows, flashed before his mind’s eye, as did the faces of tired mothers who had no room in their heart or homes for another mouth to feed, of ladies who turned their delicate faces aside when they passed a dirty, scrawny stray (being ignored was somehow _so much worse_ than any physical injury). 

This boy had **saved** Felix’s life. Any trepidation seemed to evaporate in this boy’s presence, replaced entirely by awe. Felix nodded quickly in assent. “That was amazing,” he whispered fervently, his face a picture of utter reverence as he clambered to his feet. 

The older boy’s mouth pulled upward in one corner, though there was something menacing about the amusement he derived from that statement – even if Felix had been old enough to completely interpret that look, he wouldn't have minded at all. “There was nothing revolutionary about what I **did**. Killed a couple Natives who didn't leave well enough alone, yeah, sure,” the boy scoffed with a slight one shouldered shrug. He canted his head and knelt gracefully, and leaned forward so that his face was level with Felix’s. 

Felix felt his heart speed erratically in his chest, as the older boy’s breath whispered against his gaunt cheeks and he spoke again. “But it is the ongoing force of **me** that seizes you so,” he stated darkly, his features hardening and eyes squinting for a second as he searched Felix’s wide ones _**(1)**_. 

“Yes,” Felix replied back instantly. He felt his cheeks heating with a flush when the older boy did not immediately reply or draw back, though Felix did not understand this reaction at all.

The boy suddenly smiled, his face young and innocent and decorated with a dead man’s blood; Felix felt his chest swell at the sight of it. “And this, you must _never_ forget,” he finished melodically.

Felix gradually smiled back, the curve of his lips so unaccustomed to the expression that it was almost painful. “Am I dreaming?”

“Does it matter?” the boy countered teasingly.

“What’s your name?” Felix asked in a rush as the boy stood once more and started to turn away.

“It’s Peter – Peter Pan.”

Seven years old, and Felix had found his **king**.

**Author's Note:**

> (1) Peter's words were inspired by a statement made by Johnny Rotten/John Lydon (PiL, formerly Sex Pistols) during a Swedish television interview many years ago (if memory serves me). Gotta give credit where it's due (though JL probably wants no part of this or any other fanfic, heh).


End file.
